


I've been looking at the symptoms for a while

by bookhobbit



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ea-Nasir - Freeform, Generalized Historical Tragedies and Triumphs, Historical, M/M, Messy unclear relationships that even the people in them are confused about, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Pining, Plague, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, War, i can't believe that was an existing tag, liberties have been taken with the pronouns of God and background angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: Aziraphale watched him carefully.Ask me, thought Crowley. Ask me something, anything, that shows me you understand. That makes me feel like you're listening. That makes me feel like you're on my side--But Aziraphale was an angel, of course.An angel who was opening his mouth to say....something.In the streets a man wandered past and wailed something about the judgement of gods and the end of days. Aziraphale closed his mouth, and Crowley slumped, defeated.It's not the end of the world, thought Crowley, but his heart wasn't in it. It didn't feel true right now. All the different types of dying. It was the end of some world. And worlds would keep ending. And he would be there to see them.And so would Aziraphale. The only constant in this mess, really, was one angel.Aziraphale and Crowley, from eternity to the beginning and back.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	I've been looking at the symptoms for a while

**Author's Note:**

> I started this about a year ago when I was circling around the idea of writing historical!A/C, which is a genre I really love for them, but I couldn't quite make it work. I picked it back up again six days ago and wrote almost the entire 9.5k over that time, with very little of the original left. I'm not sure quite what it is, but I hope it is enjoyable.
> 
> Let me know if you spot any typos or for that matter glaring historical errors -- I did a lot of googling and reading Wikipedia but I'm not an expert in any of these periods.

1020 A.D.

The castle was drafty and poorly-lit. They often were, in Crowley's experience. He was sitting on a bench in the hall, smoke stinging his eyes, and looking at Aziraphale.

"I don't understand, exactly, what you're proposing," Aziraphale said. He picked up his wine and took a slow sip. Always a taste for the finer things, Aziraphale, and that was what was going to let Crowley win this time.

"It's simple," said Crowley. "We're already both doing all the work we can, right? There's just the two of us and we're always in each other's hair."

"That's certainly true," said Aziraphale, looking around at the hall.

"And there's all the travel," said Crowley. "You know I can't stand horses. Chasing up and down half the country, following one king's court and then galloping over to another country to chase their king. It's a bit silly, isn't it?"

"It's what we're supposed to do."

"Yeah, but we could be so much more efficient." Crowley leaned forward a little. "Think about it, right? We just...tip each other off a bit. Do a little bit of the work for each other. Strategically avoid standing in each other's way, when it _really_ counts. Say, pick a county, for instance, you do your thing there and I'll do mine in a different one."

Aziraphale frowned. "I'm sure we'd get found out immediately."

"Nah. They're not paying that close attention, and besides, we'll coordinate it." Crowley waved a hand. "Let's say you give me, say, Kent, right? I'll say you were fighting me on it and I had to really wrestle with you to get my work done. Then we both look good, you for making an effort and me for having won. And in the meantime, you can do your own work in, eh, Northumbria or whatever you like, and say the same thing. We'll only have to do half the work but we'll be getting twice as much done."

"But then if I won't be in Kent fighting you, who would?"

"I'll do a little bit of self-sabotage and make it look like it was you. You can report it. Easy, neat."

"But then I'd have to do tempting, when it came to my time."

"Only a little."

Aziraphale hesitated.

Crowley wondered if it was always going to be like this: him tempting, Aziraphale weakening. It was a kind of dance, really. They'd be doing it for so long that they fell into the roles like they were parts they were playing -- and in a way, maybe, they were. He tried to think of the first time he'd tempted Aziraphale for real, and couldn't.

"I suppose it would get done anyway," said Aziraphale slowly.

"That's right. That's right."

"And it would be for the greater good, in the end. Because you'd be allowing me to do real work where it counts."

"Probably, probably," said Crowley. "Although it'll be for the greater evil."

"I suppose it cancels out in the end?"

"Must do."

Aziraphale made a thoughtful face. "Well..."

And Crowley knew he'd won.

-

43 A.D.

Aziraphale wasn't sure he liked Britain very much. It was damp and rainy, and there were quite a lot of bogs. But orders were orders, and you had to follow them, and Aziraphale had got a position as a scribe and followed the army all the way out here. And here they were. And the camp was smokey and food was dreadful, so unlike all the luxuries back in Rome, and there wasn't even any wine to spare. And it was raining, which Aziraphale liked in Rome because it didn't happen too often, but here it had been raining for days and his socks, with their nice cheerful red wool, hadn't been dry in that entire time.

And the worst part was that none of this was really what he was upset about anyway. None of it even mattered at all.

He slunk out of the tent to linger under the dubious shelter of a flap. It made him feel not very like himself. He'd never been much of a slinker. Not like--

"Fancy meeting you here," said Crowley, causing Aziraphale to flinch into the tentpole and nearly collapse the wretched thing.

He looked different, but Aziraphale would have known him anywhere, with any face. It was something about the expressions and the way he moved his mouth, and how he never seemed quite to have the conviction to his loathing the other demons managed. And the dark glasses, of course.

"Speak of the devil," said Aziraphale.

"What, were you talking about me?" said Crowley. He didn't seem to have trouble recognizing Aziraphale, either, though Aziraphale had a new corporation also. He never seemed to have any trouble.

Aziraphale shook his head. "What are you doing here, Crowley?"

"On assignment, what else?"

"I suppose you're here to help the Celts?"

"Nah," said Crowley. "What good would that be? You know as well as I do that the sides don't work like that."

Aziraphale did know, but he'd hoped-- well. No point in that. He huddled further under the tent. The rain felt cold in his bones. He oughtn't even be able to feel his bones. That's not what angels' bodies were for.

"You don't look well," said Crowley.

"How very observant."

"Thought you'd be reeling a bit, after the defeat in Golgotha."

"It wasn't a defeat," snapped Aziraphale. He knew he sounded much more uncertain than he really ought to have. "It was part of the Divine Plan."

"The divine plan? Getting carpenters crucified?"

"Ineffable," said Aziraphale, taking welcome retreat in the idea that he wasn't actually supposed to know what was going on.

"Nice pat answer, that. Do for anything."

Aziraphale ignored this. "What are you doing here, then, if not to help the other side? Demonic schemes?"

"Well, I'm not going to tell you, am I?" said Crowley, being quite cruelly and annoyingly Reasonable right when Aziraphale least wanted to be confronted with Reasonableness. "You'd only go and thwart it."

"It's my job."

"Exactly. And I'm not going to let you, so why don't you ease up and have a drink?"

"I don't want a drink," said Aziraphale, crossly.

"Come on. You always want a drink."

"I'm an _angel_."

"What's eating you?" Crowley looked at him through the strange smoked glasses he wore. "Go on. You're not still upset about losing."

"We didn't lose," said Aziraphale again, but his heart wasn't in it. "Anyway, that's not really the point." He hesitated. Unburdening yourself to a demon was ridiculous of course. Of course. The Enemy. "New territory, of course. A fresh battlesite."

"Is that what worries you? Not knowing the lay of the land."

"No," said Aziraphale. "I can do my research as well as anyone. It's just, well. It's an awful lot of slaughter. And I can't -- of course it's right that God's influence should be spread -- don't make that face, I know you disagree -- only, quite a lot of people are going to die. And lose their own cultures. And I just can't quite believe, you know, that They intended this."

"So why don't you stop it?"

Aziraphale shrugged.

Crowley made a rictus smile. "Yours is not to question why?"

"God gave me intelligence for a reason, surely."

"But not free will," said Crowley, humorouslessly cheerful. "They throw you out for that."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Yes. You're right, of course. I'm sorry, I really don't know what I'm doing, telling you all this."

"And me the enemy," said Crowley with a bitter little twist of his mouth. "Don't worry, I won't use it against you."

Aziraphale didn't reply; he didn't know what to say. What could you say to that. You couldn't trust demons, after all. He peeled himself off the side of the tent. "I hope we can stay out of each other's way, then."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Yeah, just as well, really."

-

542 A.D.

The deaths in Antioch were slow. A trickle, not a sudden landslide. It wasn't really that everyone was sick so much as that no matter where you went, people were sick. Crowley couldn't jet off to Rome or Alexandria to escape the sight of humans curled into streetcorners, their fingers turning black. The background radiation of illness and death, a slow grind, was doing his work for him, and it depressed him vaguely.

He wondered if he ought to go further afield. There was always China or India, things were always happening out there, but if he strayed too far from the areas he was supposed to be focusing on, he'd get a sharp note. They wanted plague miseries increased, they'd get plague miseries increased. Even if it always felt like cheating to Crowley.

He wanted someone who would understand the sheer grinding pointlessness of the whole thing, and you couldn't get that from humans. They thought too small.

There was an inn that they both frequented. The wine was rubbish, but the olives were good. Crowley was just going for a drink, that was all, and maybe a bit of a nibble.

So there was no reason to be disappointed when Aziraphale wasn't there. And no reason at all to feel easier in himself when he turned up an hour or so later. Crowley certainly hadn't been waiting.

Their eyes met across the room -- not as crowded as it should have been, its own little disconcerting sign that things were wrong. Aziraphale's eyes looked away. For a moment, Crowley thought Aziraphale would avoid him, leave him to deal with all this wretchedness on his own, but after a moment he wound his way casually over, as if he just happened to be going in that direction.

"Oh, hey," said Crowley. "Didn't expect to run into you here. Sit down, have a drink."

"Well," said Aziraphale, "Maybe just one. And an olive. Just for a moment."

Crowley glanced over at him. "You look tired, angel."

Aziraphale put his face in his hands. "Good never sleeps."

"Maybe it should, eh?"

"I can't, really. There's too much to do. I've been trying to Heal, but it's very difficult without attracting too much attention. I told them, if they only burned the clothes, and then of course a good solid hot bath for the fleas--"

"Where're they going to get hot water at a time like this?" said Crowley. "They can't miracle it like we can."

"No. No, there's that, of course. And the public baths won't be safe."

"It's probably better," said Crowley, though the words felt like slugs between his teeth. "Plenty of opportunities for human goodness, eh?"

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale's tone slid into a brightness that hurt Crowley's ears. "And evil, too. Your job must be easier than ever."

"Yeah. Going pretty well." Crowley ate an olive to wash the taste out of his mouth.

"So everything is fine," said Aziraphale, desperately.

"Just like in Athens," said Crowley. "430 B.C. Remember that one? Whoee. At least there's no war on."

Aziraphale slumped. All his careful cheer seemed to slip away at once, and he pressed his temples. "Angels shouldn't be able to get headaches, should they?"

"Can't you heal yourself?"

"I've never had the trick of it. It's like lifting yourself by your own feet. You should know."

"I've never had a headache so I've never tried it. Rewards of evil, maybe."

"Perhaps I've been doing a few too many miracles." Aziraphale took a drink of his wine and grimaced, as was only natural upon drinking the wine here. "Perhaps this is my punishment."

"You really think Them Upstairs is paying that much attention?"

Aziraphale's lips pressed flat. "I wouldn't be able to speculate. I wouldn't put it past Gabriel, you know."

"They always were a micromanaging bastard."

"Did you know them?" said Aziraphale, looking up a little. "I didn't think--"

Crowley smiled tightly. "Used to get my marching orders from them, same as the rest of you did. Didn't like them very much."

"Well," said Aziraphale, sounding a little uncertain. "At least you're out of that."

Crowley was caught off guard by his own laughter, and it startled him into silence while they both finished their drinks.

When they were done, Airaphale sighed and put his head down on the counter for a moment. "I suppose I ought to leave."

"You've got Good to do," said Crowley. He hesitated. Would Aziraphale -- no. It wasn't --

He reached his hand out gently.

He did not quite touch Aziraphale.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, raising his head and blinking. "The headache's gone. I suppose you must have been right about the drink."

"Yeah, said Crowley. He understood, suddenly, what humans meant when they talked about _having their hearts in their throats_. It wasn't just fear at all. It was something else, too. "See you round, eh?"

-

1750 B.C.

It was rare, these days, for Aziraphale to actually participate in physical warfare. Spiritual warfare, certainly, yes. There was any amount of that. An active and thrilling field, naturally. But generally on earth you didn't have to do a lot of Cosmic Battling, not anymore. Aziraphale, who had never really been comfortable with the real, actual smiting, had always found it a bit of a relief.

Nevertheless, he was currently being whacked on the head by an allegedly reputable businessman, and flailing desperately in an attempt to whack back.

"Stop ruining my business!" Whack.

"I'm thwarting! That's my job!" Whack.

"I'm a legitimate businessman!" Whack.

"I know that's you, Crowley!"

"I don't know who Crowley is." Aziraphale fielded the whack that accompanied this. "My name is Ea-nasir."

"Don't be ridiculous. I can tell it's you."

The whacking stopped, though Crowley glared. "I've got a new body and we haven't seen each other in decades."

"Don't be ridiculous. Your demonic aura--"

"Yeah, but you didn't know it was me."

"I did. Clearly I did."

"Listen. Why don't you just look the other way?" said Crowley, dropping the belligerence and going into what Aziraphale always thought of as Tempting Mode. "This is very important. I've got this new idea--"

"I'm an _angel_ ," said Aziraphale, aghast. "I can't just look the other way! It's evil! It's my role on earth to stop it!"

"Yeah, but you know you can't stop everything." Crowley leaned in a little closer. Aziraphale could just about feel his breathing, which _should_ have been unpleasant. "You let me get this off the ground, I'll return the favor later, right?"

"No! I can't do that. That would be wrong."

Crowley flapped a hand. "Right, wrong, you know they're just sides."

"Not true. Right is Right, and wrong is Wrong."

"That's just a tautology."

"Anyway, what sort of new idea is selling bad copper to unsuspecting merchants?"

Crowley's face lit up a little. "You've got to think big. I sell bad copper to one merchant, he shorts his next customer, that customer goes along and kicks a puppy-- Ah, why am I telling you this? You won't appreciate it."

"It's appalling," said Aziraphale.

"Yeah, but I'm a proper merchant. Got the copper and everything. What are you going to do about it? Compete against me?"

Aziraphale's mouth flapped for a minute or two. "I'll--I'll think of _something_."

"Good luck, then." Crowley stepped back. The smug smile on his face annoyed Aziraphale something terrible. "I'll be waiting to see it."

"Ha!" said Aziraphale. "I'll-- You'll see. I'll think of _something_."

-

1666 A.D.

London was burning.

Crowley's townhouse had been consumed hours ago. He didn't keep anything personal there -- well, he didn't have anything personal, did he -- but there had been some rather nice furniture and statues and he'd even _bought_ some of them.

He was really starting to regret tempting Sir Thomas Bloodworth into indecision. You never thought it was _your_ townhouse that was going to burn. Still, it had done rather a lot of evil all at once, and a lot of people were going to be very angry and nasty and that could only help the cause. He was pleased with it, on the whole.

He decided, watching the blaze as it tore through town after town, that he'd go and hold it over Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale was always going on about how the smallest of human actions could have the most enormous effect on the course of history and so you had to encourage people to choose Good. He'd hate to hear that Crowley had applied his own words against him.

Crowley walked through the streets, ignoring the heat. Sometimes he had to walk through alleys that would have fried a human, but he wasn't worried about that. It wasn't too long a walk to--

The bookshop was on fire too.

He stood for a while watching the blaze. Aziraphale would be back, of course. Crowley would recognize him. Crowley always recognized him. He looked, unlike every other angel Crowley had met, _uncertain_. It might not even take too long, unless they decided to reassign him. Maybe a new adversary would be an interesting challenge. He'd probably get a commendation for it if he'd discorporated him. No more lunches with Aziraphale and no more drinks afterwards and no more looking at each other and understanding. He really should move, out of the way of the burning buildings all around him. Good time to take a trip to Europe. But he didn't seem to be able to make himself budge.

"I don't suppose you've come to help me get my books out," said a voice behind him.

Crowley spun around. He felt jolted, like the fire had licked over his whole body and gone. "It's probably a little late for that," he said.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," said Aziraphale. "I got most of the important ones out. Still, it seems an awful waste."

"I thought you'd be discorporated," said Crowley. He cursed himself for blurting it out.

"I thought _you'd_ be enjoying this," said Aziraphale. "Hellfire."

"This isn't hellfire." Crowley looked away. "Anyway, we don't _like_ it, we just live in it. Much like London."

"Did you ever go to the coffeehouse -- the Temple Bar it was called. I like coffeehouses."

"No." Crowley shook his head. "Let's get out of here. Go somewhere that's not on fire."

They walked to Moorfields, where Aziraphale said he knew a nice young man who ran an inn that'd give them a room. Neither of them thought at all how strange it was to be walking in company with technically-the-enemy through smouldering streets. Crowley was absentmindedly keeping his feet from burning with an effort that kept slipping when he thought about the burning bookshop.

Crowley told himself that he and Aziraphale were more offbalanced by the whole thing than any of the humans, because none of them had been here to see the city rebuilt after Boudica'd burnt it to the ground. Not like there'd never been destruction before this, of course, but Crowley had been so _used_ to the city.

He'd been fine until he'd seen--

Well.

Moorfields was crowded with humans, camped under makeshift tents or just huddled out in the open. There was probably some good grounds for work out here, lots of potential for spreading discord, but you couldn't do that in the company of an angel, could you? And Aziraphale couldn't do his bit in the company of a demon, either. So they just walked through the crowds, human among humans.

There was just the one room left, but Crowley was tired enough to deal with it. Demons weren't supposed to get tired, but there you are. Sometimes you had to put your head down a bit. He'd slept beside strangers before and so, therefore, this could not be worse.

They lack back-to-back, both thinking of what they'd seen.

There had been fires before. There had always been fires.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have taken a room," said Aziraphale after a while. "Someone else who actually sleeps might have needed it more."

Aziraphale's back was almost, but not quite, in touching distance of Crowley's. "It'll only be for one night and then we'll strategize. Do you know where you'll be sent next?"

"No. I suppose they might like me to stay. It's often useful after disasters to have someone around to provide inspiration, you know."

"Yeah."

There was a long silence.

"Aziraphale," said Crowley.

"Yes?"

"I convinced the Lord Mayor not to start on firebreaks until it was too late. Your bookshop probably wouldn't have burned if it hadn't been for that."

Crowley could hear Aziraphale's slow breathing. It didn't sound any angrier than it had.

"My dear," said Aziraphale, "Are you gloating, or asking to be shriven?"

Crowley scoffed. It sounded unconvincing to his own ears. "I'm a demon, what do you think?"

"Well, it was very dastardly of you, if it makes you feel better."

"I don't want to feel better. I'm just. Telling you. So you know."

"I see. Very demonic of you."

Crowley thought of Aziraphale as naive, sometimes, and then there were times where that was impossible.

He swallowed to banish the hard lump of guilt in his throat, but it didn't work. Which was ridiculous, of course. It was his job. He liked being a demon a hell of a lot more than he'd ever liked being an angel, although of course it wasn't really a choice.

They slept, though they didn't have to, and tomorrow they would wake and work again. It wasn't really a choice.

-

1310 A.D.

They came face to face outside the office of a bishop.

Aziraphale had been coming to try and plead mercy for a prisoner. He didn't know what Crowley was here for. Maybe it was the same thing. That happened sometimes. Sometimes you didn't know who would approve of an action until you got your orders.

For a long time, Aziraphale and Crowley stood looking at each other. They weren't fighting anymore, of course. The Arrangement. Aziraphale stood uncertainly, watching Crowley, wondering if that held true after last time's Incident. The hit had been quite accidental. The fight had been supposed to be for show. But Crowley wasn't really a very strong fighter.

"Looks like we're double-booked, angel," said Crowley.

"If you'd told me, I could have done both jobs," said Aziraphale.

"Next time we'll know."

It was a different Crowley again, this time. Of course, it _had_ been several decades since they'd seen each other last. Things had been so busy what with the Crusades. Of course things would have changed.

"You've got a new corporation," said Aziraphale, as if he'd barely noticed, as if he didn't pay attention at all to the way that Crowley looked.

Crowley looked around and then down at himself, as if he'd forgotten about it. "Yeah," he said, "You did for me after all, that last time. Good hit."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Aziraphale automatically.

"It's probably just as well. They figured I might as well blend in."

"Will you be in Byzantium for some time, then?"

"Ah," said Crowley genially, "Wouldn't you like to know. Incidentally, it's been Constantinople for the past thousand years now, nearly. You could try to keep up."

"It's shorter," said Aziraphale, realizing what had been puzzling him.

"Only barely. By-zan-ti-um, Con-stan-ti-no-ple. What's that, one more syllable?"

"Not that. The new corporation."

Crowley frowned. "Only a couple of inches."

"I think you're shorter than me now," said Aziraphale.

"No!"

Aziraphale ignored the scandalized tone and stood himself straight-backed for once, shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley, suddenly more comfortable. Something about Crowley's bothering him about Constantinople and about the scandalous tone of his no had made it all right again, the way it had been before, with the Arrangement. "You are. Definitely you are."

"I can't be."

"I'm sure of it. Stand up straight, no, not on your toes!"

He drew a straight line between the top of his own head and Crowley's, and met empty air.

"Why," said Crowley, "was that so important?"

"Accuracy is a foundational virtue," said Aziraphale primly.

Crowley began to say, "You just want to hold that over my head--" and stopped as Aziraphale turned around to face him and accidentally brushed his arm.

They were eye-to-eye suddenly, faces closer than they had been for a long time. Aziraphale blinked. Crowley didn't: he often forgot to when he wasn't paying attention.

Aziraphale's breath felt tight in his throat.

Crowley made an incremental movement. It was not away from Aziraphale; it was towards him. His hand twitched just slightly. Alive to his every moment as Aziraphale was right now, it was hard to miss the way he looked, the way he raised his chin just a little.

How had Aziraphale missed that? Was it there before? He tried to think back to Rome and to Alexandria, but he couldn't remember. He wasn't sure if it was a hunger for him, specifically, or simply for affection. Could demons long for affection? They must not get any of it, must they, in hell?

(The cold white walls of heaven, brisk and slightly impatient interactions with other angels -- Aziraphale wasn't used to affection either. But of course he had Love. And Love, naturally, made up for it. Had to.)

Aziraphale smiled a little, and stepped back a pace. It was the opposite of what he wanted to do, which was to reach out to Crowley and answer that longing, no matter who it was aimed at. To touch their hands and feel the softness and warmth of skin, the little sensations that became huge when you focused on them, that strange vulnerability of mortal flesh to mortal flesh. He wanted to let his hand travel up Crowley's arm, to brush his cheek, to touch his hair. The thought of it loomed larger than life in his mind. What that soft dark hair might feel like, the curve of the sharp cheekbone. And wouldn't it be good? Wouldn't it be -- bringing comfort? How could it be wrong?

Aziraphale looked away. His own instincts on what felt like an action that was Good had often proven incorrect.

Crowley hid his disappointment well; Aziraphale supposed he'd had practice. Hell wouldn't approve either. They weren't even supposed to talk to each other, really.

"--there's a nice little place down the street," said Crowley heavily, a peace offering. "Seafood."

"Yes," said Aziraphale with false brightness. "Yes, that sounds very nice."

-

1991 A.D.

An angel and a demon sat at a table at the Ritz.

No one was paying attention to them. For one thing, they came here quite regularly. For another, they were good at not being paid attention to. It was a skill that both of them had developed quite nicely over their six-thousand-year careers.

They were not, however, succeeding in paying no attention to each other. Not paying attention to each other was a skill they had _not_ developed quite nicely over their six-thousand-year careers.

Crowley was looking at Aziraphale's hands. He did this often, although he wasn't really aware of it. He thought about them often, and this he was aware of. He'd spent lot of nights trying not to think about them. A lot of nights. Very, very long nights. It somehow, right now, didn't seem worth all the effort not to think about them.

Aziraphale was looking at Crowley's eyes. He didn't see them very often, but Crowley's sunglasses were placed carefully on the side of the table, just beside the bottom tier of cakes that had come with Aziraphale's tea. Crowley had gently ribbed him for ordering afternoon tea like an American tourist, and Aziraphale had said that he thought he'd earned it.

And they had eaten.

And they sat, in silence, staring at each other.

After a long moment, Aziraphale gave in to a temptation he'd been feeling for a very long time, and reached out a hand, and touched Crowley's cheek.

Crowley froze. "Angel," he said in a tone of perfectly flat calm. "What are you doing?"

Aziraphale put his hand back down. An observer might have noticed he wasn't looking at Crowley. "I'm very sorry."

Crowley seemed ready to leap out of his chair and run away, or possibly to lay his head down on the table and close his eyes, or perhaps somehow both at the same time. "That's not an answer." A long pause. "And I didn't say you had to stop."

Aziraphale put his hand back out. Carefully, Crowley took it, one thumb resting against the palm. His hands were shaking. Anyone noticing might have thought: how very undemonic, how very very human.

"You've really got no idea," said Crowley, tracing a little circle in the palm of Aziraphale's hand.

"No idea of what?"

Crowley shook his head and bowed his head a little. He raised Aziraphale's hand as if he was going to kiss it, but did not, just breathed on it for a moment. His breath was not quite in pattern, as though he kept forgetting about it.

"You can't just say something like that and not tell me what you mean, my dear," said Aziraphale. He sounded as though he wasn't really breathing at all.

"Demon," murmured Crowley. He must have felt Aziraphale flinch, because he let go. "Sorry."

"I didn't say you had to stop," said Aziraphale.

"And you never told me what you were doing," said Crowley, not taking Aziraphale's hand back.

"Well, I thought it was rather obvious. You're observant enough to know."

"Six thousand years, you've never done that."

"There was too much risk. If you'd been hurt--"

"Would have been worth it," said Crowley, perhaps a little too fast for either of their comfort. He looked away. He seemed to wish he had his glasses back on, for he ran a hand over his eyes and frowned. "Did you think of it?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I did."

Aziraphale was thinking about Byzantine seafood and the plague of Athens. Crowley was thinking about headaches.

After a few moments, Crowley reached back out, and took hold of Aziraphale's hand.

"There's no guarantee it's safe now," Crowley said. "They're probably still watching."

"Well. There's probably time."

Their hands were very tight together. It was as though they couldn't let go long enough to shift their grip, or to extend the touch. It was as though this was the first they'd time they'd touched, after a long, long period of thinking about it.

"Don't you get tired of London?" said Aziraphale after a while. "We could leave. Go somewhere cleaner, perhaps."

"Where?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've always liked the southeast coast."

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them. His hand tightened on Aziraphale's for a moment. "Your bookshop?"

"If we had a cottage with a spare bedroom or two I could probably store them there. It's not as though I really want customers, you know. That was only ever a device for keeping them."

"My flat."

"You don't live there. You know you don't."

Crowley was thinking of drafty castle halls. "Have to live somewhere."

"Yes. That's my point, really."

"I don't think immortal beings can retire."

"Don't you think we've earned a rest?"

Crowley stood, and dropped some money on the table. It was probably far more than the bill really called for, but he was feeling generous. That it had been summoned from the pocket of a man currently eating a roast chicken dinner, and that that banker would subsequently be forced to use the Ritz's phone to call his wife to come and pay his bill because he hadn't brought his card, didn't worry him. His hand was still in Aziraphale's, and neither of them let go as they rose.

They went home.

-

1941 A.D.

The air raid sirens started going off halfway through lunch. They exchanged glances.

"We could just miracle it," said Crowley. "We've got most of the wine left."

"It would draw unnecessary attention," said Aziraphale. "Come on, dear boy. When you think of the scale of eternity, it's hardly any time at all."

Crowley heaved a sigh and dragged himself from his seat. As an afterthought he grabbed the bottle of wine; he was definitely going to need it. If he had to be stuck in an underground tin can with oceans of humans he wasn't going to be doing it sober.

They had probably been miraculously missed by one too many bombs, it was true... The last thing you wanted at a time like this was Heaven or Hell checking up on you. Crowley had gotten a commendation for the war not long after it'd first started. He'd gone out to Germany to see what the fuss was about and had to come back and stare at the wall for a while. Humans had a kind of talent, didn't they, for things they could do to each other. He'd never understood how Hell thought they could outdo that.

But then, it was humans undoing it, too. Crowley didn't think he'd ever really understand them.

It was just up the road to the air raid shelter, but Crowley almost lost Aziraphale in the crowd anyway. The street was filled with surging groups from the restaurant. They were all too tired to panic properly, but they clung together, as if they thought it'd make them a little safer. Crowley got knocked slightly aside by an impatient group of businessmen, set one of their ties on fire with an angry look, and turned back to forestall Aziraphale's complaint.

He was disappearing into a knot of worried people. They passed over him in a rush, leaving him slightly bewildered. Crowley hung back until they'd gone on, waiting for Aziraphale. Because of the wine, of course. He couldn't drink the wine alone.

"Certainly thick in these parts," said Aziraphale, also worried, and took Crowley's arm to avoid further separation.

Crowley forgot about breathing all the way to the shelter, which he would later tell himself was due to the crowds. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice, anyway. He was watching people. Presumably he was thinking of ways to spread light and joy. Crowley was thinking of the wine, and just the wine.

When they arrived, the darkness was complete, for the moment. Nobody had yet thought to strike a match or light an electric torch. Crowley hoped they didn't; he didn't want to look at all the desperate human faces. The tang of fear in the air was tangible already. These were people who'd been through this so many times that they no longer thought to panic, but that didn't mean they had no anxiety. It was a tension in the back of their minds, radiating out from their throats like their breath.

If he died, of course, he'd be sent back in a couple of days with a new body. Nothing worse than an interrogation about how he'd lost this one to contend with. Of course, this being Hell, that was pretty bad, but even so. When these people died, the people around him, they died. No new bodies. No new anything. Just gone.

They knew that. In these moments they could taste the impermanence like he could taste their awareness of it. You couldn't be around all this misery and not be infected by it somehow.

He wanted to shout at them, it's not the apocalypse! It's not the end of the world! I should know, I'll be there when it is, they'll probably give me a paperwork assignment to do during it! This is just one more roadbump on the way to eternity!

But humans didn't know that. They thought so, so, so small.

Crowley lifted his eyes, and there was Aziraphale. When you were an eternal being it was not difficult to see that he, too, was feeling what Crowley was. That he was lonely in this dense crowd of creatures who lived and died before you could blink, who thought the world was going to disappear just because they weren't in it.

They stared at each other; that was all, just staring.

Crowley had realized something awful, something he'd never really thought about: that not being in love with someone did not mean you didn't love them.

-

3012 B.C.

Humans, Aziraphale sometimes thought, were _wonderful_. All of the little things they did while you weren't looking added up and suddenly became some kind of enormous, huge discovery, some innovation that changed the way you thought about things forever. That's what he felt right now. Like his eyes had been opened.

He really had to tell someone, and there was only one person he knew who would be appropriately impressed.

Crowley was always hanging around the general environs of the Pharaoh, trying to tempt him to various invasions and cruelties. It was his new passion, using rulers to spread evil to the common people, now that humans were really getting to grips with Proper Kingdoms. Aziraphale found him lounging in the shade, eyes closed, and clapped a little.

"Angel," said Crowley, "Have you come to harangue me?"

"Look at this, have you seen it?" Aziraphale thrust the little stone tablet in front of Crowley.

"Looks like pictures."

"Ah! That's the clever bit!"

"What's so clever about pictures? They're not even good pictures. Call that a leg? It's a stick with a triangle at the end."

"They're not for _artistic_ value. They make words, look!" Aziraphale traced the letters. "That stands for movement, and that stands for the word _person_ , and that stands for the word _grain_ "

"Huh. What's that mean? Person moves grain?"

"Exactly!"

"I can say that a lot easier out loud."

"They get more complex. They call them _mdw.w-nṯr_. God's words." Aziraphale felt proud of that even if the gods they meant weren't _quite_ his jurisdiction. He felt sure that his God would have approved. This was the sort of thing They'd created human intelligence for, he was positive.

"It'll never catch on," said Crowley dubiously, running a finger over the letters.

"Do you think so?" said Aziraphale. "I think they will."

"Too bulky, the carving. You can't lug a stone around with you."

"They'll come up with something better. They've been drawing them in the sand for practice, I'm sure you could come up with some kind of permanent arrangement."

"They're doing something similar in Sumer, last I checked, with clay."

"Are they?" Aziraphale's eyes brightened. "I'll have to visit, then."

"You like this," said Crowley.

"Well," said Aziraphale. He felt a little flustered, as if he'd been accused of a minor perversion. "Don't you? The possibilities are endless."

"Tallying up numbers, things like that? Good for keeping track of your cows, I suppose."

"You're not seeing the _possibilities_ ," said Aziraphale impatiently. "They could write down anything. Stories, or messages to other people, or _anything_. They could write down history and then they'd know what happened!"

"We already know what happened. We were there."

"We can only be in one place at a time. Besides, you forget things after a while unless you think of them again and again. Do you think they'd teach me?"

"What, to carve stone?"

"The letters. I'm _sure_ I could think of a better carrying medium. Wood is light. Or leaves, perhaps?"

"Leaves wouldn't last."

"There'll be something."

Crowley looked at him. His eyes were very yellow, and they seemed, somehow, to linger on Aziraphale. It flustered him nearly as much as the _you like this_ had. He'd known Crowley for nearly a thousand years now, even if they hadn't always been operating in the same sphere, and it hadn't hit him until right then that perhaps Crowley was learning him. Understanding him.

That wasn't right, surely. It couldn't be safe.

He dropped his hands, and took the tablet back. "I think it will be excellent for spreading God's messages." Even to himself, it sounded a little weak, and he couldn't shake the sense that Crowley could see past the facade.

"I'll have to learn them too, then," said Crowley. "Can't let you have it all your own way, can I."

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale stepped back a few paces. "I would expect no less from an adversary such as yourself."

Crowley smiled a snakelike smile. Aziraphale couldn't shake the sense that he was watching him as he walked away, and wondered uneasily what it meant.

-

1892 A.D.

Crowley was looking forward to getting into the social life of London properly again. He'd done a bit of poking around and there was quite a lot of interesting sin happening at the moment that he felt sure he could encourage. Cultivating artists and all that was always a safe bet, so he'd accepted the invitation to the Sharps' dinner party when it came. Old William knew his networks, all right. If anyone could get Crowley in with the scandalous set, it was him.

He was expecting Algernon Charles Swinburne.

He wasn't expecting an angel.

It only startled him for a moment. The point about Society was it was full of movers and shakers, so you were always meeting people who were trying to move and shake in it.

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, before he could stop himself to ask what Aziraphale's current cover name was. Well, probably close enough.

"Crowley, dear boy," said Aziraphale warmly, and then winced a little.

"You know each other, then," said Mrs Sharp. "Just as well that I was going to put you across from each other."

"Oh, we go way back," said Crowley. "Old...acquaintances." All that warmth was suddenly gone from Aziraphale's manner, vanishing with that little wince.

"How nice," said Mrs Sharp. "Mr. Fell, perhaps you'll escort me in to dinner, since you're our newest."

"Charmed," said Aziraphale, with an over-the-top kind of smile.

They sat at the other end of the table from their hosts. Since neither of them was a painter or poet (at present. Crowley had tried painting; Aziraphale had tried poetry. They'd both given it up), they were mostly ignored in favor of the other guests. Every so often Mrs Sharp would volley a remark at one of them, and they'd participate a bit before the conversation wound back around to the merits of medievalism or handicrafts or Celtic paganism.

Gradually, they were forgotten about, and they looked across the table at each other.

"Nice to see you," said Aziraphale. He winced again. "That is... It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Seems like. Where have you been?" said Crowley. "Off in Europe? America?"

"I had to report in," said Aziraphale uncomfortably. "Work, you know."

They both glanced over at the humans, who were engaged in a very vigorous debate about the merits of Wordsworth. Aziraphale, Crowley knew, liked Wordsworth. Crowley could take or leave any of the Romantics.

"That was a hell of a long one, then," Crowley said.

"They had a number of questions about whether I was being effective in this sphere," said Aziraphale. "To wit, whether I was doing any good against your wiles."

Crowley forgot to blink. "That must have been interesting."

"Not particularly," said Aziraphale distantly. "In any case, I convinced them that things would be much worse without me."

There was a loud outburst from Swinburne. Crowley readjusted his dark glasses while Mrs. Sharp restored order.

"That man," said Aziraphale, "is unfit for company."

Crowley relaxed a little. Aziraphale was easier and more fun when he was comfortable enough to be catty. "You don't know a good time when you see one, that's all."

"I like my good times to be quiet and refined."

They both looked at Swinburne, who was vibrating visibly. "He's all right when you get him alone," said Crowley. "Though not as interesting as Simeon Solomon."

"I suppose you've been getting to know all these people while I was gone?"

Crowley shrugged. "Something like that." In fact he'd really only been awake for four or five years, but he wasn't going to tell Aziraphale that. Aziraphale might think Earth was boring without him. Which was untrue, obviously, when there were people like Solomon and Swinburne.

"Sowing discord and so forth."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yellow Nineties and all. Lot of interesting pornography happening right now."

Aziraphale made a face. Crowley wondered if he was really disinterested or if it was the same kind of obligatory response as his snapping. "We have very little in common, I sometimes think."

Crowley's mouth twisted a little. "But here we are at the same dinner party anyway."

"Why did we make our Arrangement?" said Aziraphale, quietly enough for the humans not to hear over the sound of William Sharp expostulating about his latest magazine.

Crowley took in a slow breath and wondered what Heaven had said to him. "To make things more efficient. You remember, don't you?"

"I don't know. It seems so long ago, now." Aziraphale picked up his glass of wine and put it back down carefully. "So many things have happened since then."

"Only the things that always happen. Wars, famines, plagues. Death, y'know."

Aziraphale sighed. "Perhaps I've let myself become too...indifferent. With the Arrangement."

 _You never thought so before you got called back and scolded for it_ , thought Crowley cynically. _You never thought so when it made less work for you._ He wasn't sure that was fair; he knew what they did to you in Heaven. But he knew what they did to you in Hell, too, and Aziraphale didn't. "The work is getting done, though. With more time for it."

Aziraphale looked at his glass again. Crowley could draw the line: 'but I don't use it for work, I use it for luxuries'. And what was wrong with that, he wanted to say. Why shouldn't Aziraphale enjoy the pleasures of Earth? What the hell business did God or any of the other angels have to interfere, if the work was getting done? But it was probably questions like that, and hanging around with people who asked them, that had got him here in the first place. And they didn't really like you acclimatizing, either, Hell. They wanted you to stay sharp, not go soft and start liking humans and all that.

"Look at it this way," said Crowley. "Who else have we got?"

Aziraphale looked at him. His arm seemed to go out for a moment, and then fell back into his lap.

The space between them seemed wide.

The space between them and the humans seemed even wider.

What could you do, really?

-

85 B.C.

"Ever been drunk?" said Crowley. They were leaning on a bar and waiting, arms nearly touching. It was funny how Aziraphale kept running into him, across space and across time. Funny how they seemed to orbit around each other.

Aziraphale gave him a shocked look. "Of course not!"

"Four thousand years and you've never been drunk? Come on." Crowley nudged him. "Got to try it. Got to figure out exactly what the humans are experiencing, eh?"

"I'm sure that's not in the heavenly plans."

"How do you know whether to counsel them to stay away from it?"

"Well, I've consumed alcohol, _obviously_ , just not to excess."

"You haven't really experienced it, then."

"Well," said Aziraphale, puzzled and reluctant. "Does it matter that much, really?"

"Sure. You know what humans are like. Any substance. Besides, if you understand the state of mind, can't you talk to people in it so much easier?"

"Well," said Aziraphale again. He hesitated. "Well, how does one start?"

And that was how they wound up in Crowley's richly-appointed insula, on soft cushions, eating fruits and nuts and getting progressively more drunk.

"I must say," said Aziraphale, fascinated at the way the hazy feeling in his head made his words come out sluggish and imprecise, "Wages of sin are pretty good, looks like."

"When you tell people to give into their worst impulssssessss," said Crowley, "They like you. They give you things. They don't like you so much when you tell them not to."

"I have friends," said Aziraphale.

"Ha! Friends. With humans? They don't even know you."

"I have people who respec me," said Aziraphale, finding consonant clusters troublesome. "People who follow what I ask. Agents, you know."

"Oh, agents," said Crowley. "People'll do anything for a cause. Who do you have that gives you stuff? Invites you to parties?"

" _We're_ having a party," said Aziraphale. "Right now."

"Isn't a party. Isn't a party with only two people."

"Well, who do you know that gives you stuff and invites you to parties?"

"Lot of people. Lot of people in the Senate. Lot of generals."

"Like who?"

"Well...." said Crowley. "Sulla. Sulla likes me. Good old Lucius."

"Does he know you?" said Aziraphale. "You said friends with humans ha they don't even know you."

"Of course he doesn't know me, but he _likes_ me." Crowley sniffed. "Only person that knows me is you."

"Likewise, I'm sure," said Aziraphale, before he could stop himself.

Their eyes met. Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley didn't.

"'s a little sad," said Aziraphale, softly. "Only your enemy knowing you. A little sad."

"Don't know," said Crowley. "No, I don't know. Enemy is as good a person as any, right? Keeps you on your toes."

"Gets you drunk," said Aziraphale accusingly.

"Someone has to."

"Weak'ning my moral fibre."

"Seems like you're doing that yourssself."

"Ha. Well maybe you're...strengthening your moral fibre."

"Perish the thought." Crowley poured him more wine. "Demons don't rise, right? We just fall. Further and further."

"Maybe being around me makes you...slow down."

"What, like we're balancing each other out? Dunt work that way."

"Could. Maybe it does."

"Nah." Crowley shook his head. "Dunt. For my money we're gonna stay the way we are. You and me, fighting each other for eternity."

Aziraphale considered this. Through the halo of wine surrounding his brain, he couldn't think straight, and he thought that must be why the idea didn't seem so bad to him.

He raised his cup. "To nemeses," he said.

"To nemeses," said Crowley, and their cups met.

-

428 B.C.

Crowley really should have been outside tempting, but it felt like there was no tempting left to be done. Someone had come in, sneaked into his territory, and done really, really, really big tempting, with none at all left for him.

Athens felt half-empty. All the young men not sick were out fighting the Spartans, and everyone inside the city seemed to either be dying or caring for the dying. And how could you do any tempting like that? What were you going to tempt them to? Abandoning the sick didn't further the cause of evil much. Nobody wanted to cheat or lie or fornicate, or even had the energy to steal. Crowley prided himself on his ability to spread even in bulk, but it was already here, he thought.

Where there was evil there was also good, of course. He sat on the street and watched Aziraphale touch a young woman as she died, probably giving her some sort of divine comfort or something.

"Still doing good, eh?" said Crowley, for something to say, as Aziraphale crossed over in front of him.

"It is my job."

"Don't you think it's all a little pointless?" said Crowley. He tried to temper the bitterness in his voice and didn't really succeed. "They come up with new ways to torture each other as fast as you can think them. And the world comes up with them too. Bloody awful world."

Aziraphale picked his way over and sat down beside him. "It's not all bad."

"Yeah," said Crowley, sneering a little, "It's got sunshine and rainbows and all that. So what?"

"I don't know. I was thinking more about humans." Aziraphale looked up at the sky. "Writing, and astronomy, and all the people who stayed to care for their loved ones. That shows it's not all torture."

"That's your jurisdiction, not mine."

"Are you tired of it?" said Aziraphale. "Evil. Suffering."

Crowley looked away, but the street was filled with people. Suffering. He looked back. "Of course not. It's my job."

"Yes. Silly of me, I suppose." Aziraphale's hand seemed to raise for a moment, and then lower. As if he'd been about to touch Crowley.

Would that touch have burned Crowley? Holiness, and all that? Would it have felt warm, the way human touch did, or would they have cancelled out? He said, "Are _you_ tired of good?"

"Naturally not." Aziraphale's words sounded automatic. "It's all part of the Divine Plan."

Crowley was so damn tired of hearing about the Divine bloody Plan. "Pretty sure it's part of the Infernal Plan."

"Is there an Infernal Plan?"

"Well, I'm not telling _you_ ," said Crowley, who didn't know.

Aziraphale withdrew a little, and Crowley cursed himself quietly. "Of course. Of course."

"Why are you so sure, anyway, that everything's the Divine Plan? You don't know what God's got in mind. Maybe They didn't really mean for war to happen here and now."

"God's omniscent and omnipotent. It's in the terms."

"Ha. That's what They want you to think."

"That's the sort of thing that got you damned," said Aziraphale. "That's blasphemy."

"Look at all this, Aziraphale." Crowley didn't know if he'd ever actually used an angel's name to their face before this, and he knew he should be quiet, but -- "Look at all of it. You think They wanted it? What does the Divine Plan do? Let humans suffer and die?"

"Free will--"

"But what's the _point_ of it all?"

"I don't really understand what you're trying to say," said Aziraphale. "I was trying to cheer you up."

"That's giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Do they let you do that?"

Aziraphale's lips pinched. "I'm allowed to exercise sufficient judgement."

"It's all useless," said Crowley. "They go round and round fighting the same war and having the same problems and we can't even fix it."

"You're not supposed to fix it."

Crowley waved a hand irritably. "But I could, if I approached in the right way. You can make evil very tidy, very neat."

"So why don't you, then?"

"Because I have my orders, and those orders are try to one-up whatever humans are doing to each other and whatever's happening around them, and right now," Crowley said, "that feels pretty damn difficult."

Aziraphale watched him carefully.

 _Ask me_ , thought Crowley. _Ask me something, anything, that shows me you understand. That makes me feel like you're listening. That makes me feel like you're on my side--_

But Aziraphale was an angel, of course.

An angel who was opening his mouth to say....something.

In the streets a man wandered past and wailed something about the judgement of gods and the end of days. Aziraphale closed his mouth, and Crowley slumped, defeated.

It's not the end of the world, thought Crowley, but his heart wasn't in it. It didn't feel true right now. All the different types of dying. It was the end of _some_ world. And worlds would keep ending. And he would be there to see them.

And so would Aziraphale. The only constant in this mess, really, was one angel.

-

4003 B.C.

Aziraphale tried to avoid Crawly, but he wasn't very good at it. Their charge was _people_ , and there were currently only two people on Earth, so their jurisdictions, as it were, overlapped. There was really only so much you could do with any of the other creatures and most of it wasn't very interesting.

The flaming sword had a prominent place in the little tent-slash-hut-slash-shack that the people were living in. It was made mostly of leaves and bark, but it kept the rain off, mostly, except when the wind was too strong and blew it down, when they both rebuilt it. Aziraphale was thinking of showing them a nice cave a few miles away, but the soil wasn't nearly so good over there, so he wasn't sure. And anyway, was he allowed to _interfere_? God hadn't been very specific in Their instructions.

He was hanging back uncertainly at the moment for just this reason. So was Crawly. Neither of them were quite sure whether the birth of the first human child in the entire world was something they should encourage or not. And what could you do except let humans make their choices?

"It's very messy," said Aziraphale doubtfully.

"You'd think They'd have come up with a better way," said Crawly.

"Well, They did promise to give her pain for her role in the Garden," said Aziraphale, who felt he had to stick up for the old firm.

"Certainly looks it."

Eve was wailing. Adam was holding her hand. Aziraphale wondered what that felt like -- not the baby, he could leave that well enough alone. Having your hand held. The thought felt really quite dangerous, really quite as though Crawly would look into his head and see it and laugh. Or that God would see it, and recall him, or strike him down. That should have occurred to him first, really, but God was far away and Crawly was right here. Right next to him, watching the first human born of human coming into the world. Its own act of creation, Aziraphale thought, very quietly so that nobody could hear him. The first act of creation by humans, for humans, from humans.

In some small but very important way, it was the beginning of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> William Sharp (12 September 1855 – 12 December 1905; also wrote as Fiona MacLeod) was a writer and poet who orbited the Victorian literary scene with incredible but short-lived success, building a reputation that stopped cold basically as soon as he died. He may have been some flavor of trans. He's the subject of my partner's dissertation, and that's why I've chosen to insert him, rather than any *remotely* well-known contemporary, as the host of Crowley's dinner party.


End file.
